


Her

by deakysuns



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, High School AU, Love Story, M/M, Rogerina - Freeform, Smut, but only three out of seven characters have manchesterish accents, i hate this a lot but hey its out there now, kinda dumb ngl, period homophobia, set in some high school near manchester, there's smut in later chapters :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-10-18 22:46:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17589860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deakysuns/pseuds/deakysuns
Summary: It's December 1971: the UK has just moved to decimal currency and the voting age has been lowered. In a town just south of Manchester, Bernie Smith does well at school. She keeps herself to herself, despite being friends with two of the most notorious troublemakers at school. Until she develops unrequited love for Roger Taylor, the girl in her English class who plays a part in the school's amateur theatre production.





	1. Chapter 1

I've never had to write an egotistical character before.

But, sitting at the back of the class with a disconsolate English teacher on my back, I rest my head against my hands and watch out at the rest of the class. Writing didn't come so naturally to me as it did to the others, those with their heads bent further down the desk in a fit of furious bursts. Miss Leider and I make eye contact, however briefly, and it's all I need to see to remember to get back to work, if it meant writing something worth no merit at all.

Sitting in front of me to my right is a girl who hasn't picked up her pen in the past ten minutes; instead watching the front of the class in a similar fashion to me, not so much bored as tired with the routine. It's a wonder she can't think of anything to say about a non-existent egotistical moron, when she's the first I thought of, upon hearing the task.

Roger doesn't like talking. It's the very absence of her voice that makes her appear so full of herself, always touching her silky blonde hair and walking with a killer stride. Paired with her affinity for theatre and a resting face resembling Monroe's dislike, it's what makes her so terribly loathed among the students of Hawthorne's High School for Girls.

Saying all that, with my head slipping further down my arm in an episode of awful dreaminess, none of it stops me from keeping my eyes on her the majority of the lesson, the way a little girl does with the boy she so desperately fancies. While others see her silence spare for the stage as a sign of narcissistic love, I watch from the wings believing it's the only passion that removes her from her introverted boredom. When Rocky and Fish come running, escaping from the ruckus they've undoubtedly caused underneath the stage, and they sit down beside me and jokingly ask whether it's Stifler I'm gazing at so warmly, I nod my head slowly, knowing they'd lose the hair atop their heads if they knew.

"Smith, get your head down," Leider growls, and the whine of the age-old desks becomes louder as I remove my weight from it. My face blooms with embarrassment, more well-known than the clockwork tick of the desk as I move my pen.

It's almost soulless, if not for the motive keeping the words alive. I carry on writing for the remaining five minutes, anything that my so-called brain spews out, careful not to draw too many parallels to Roger in the fear that anyone with a beady eye will notice. My pen smudges until it's a barely recognizable piece of rushed thought, and as Miss Leider snaps her ruler against the chalkboard and declares the time up, I remember it's either this low-grade passion poem or detention for "lack of effort".

The next half of the lesson is spent going through the textbook and writing down the most obvious of answers, while Leider sits at her desk and cynically scrutinises our papers, occasionally calling out certain people for making "idiotic mistakes". I sit with my head down, nervous what she'll think of my sad attempt at a good piece of writing, and whether or not it's apparent who the girl in question is, and who the narrator seems to be.

When she gets to Roger's, she doesn't have anything contemptible to say, much less any words to come out of her mouth. She glances at her once, barely surprised, and moves on to the next paper. So, how did I ever know it was Roger's paper she was looking at? From the way she clenched her pen, her ears a distinct shade of pink, and looked down hurriedly afterward. It leaves me much more flustered than Leider's uninspiring criticism ever has done.

The bell sounds, and I close my textbook up quickly. The classroom gradually begins to get louder and more eager until girls are shouting what they wrote over each side of the classroom, far too vocal about their mistakes to feel any kind of shame for them. It's a phenomenon I've yet to understand, trudging deeply into the wet mud of the ground outside to get to the shattered sixth form block opposite.

Rocky and Fish attend Hawthorne's sixth form, which, despite being called mixed, segregates classes by gender. They're not seen as popular, and far from it — far too many incidences have happened with their names plastered all over them, for anyone to regard them as more than two-headed troublemakers. I met them a couple of months back when I had nobody to work with in History, and I've stuck by them ever since, spending our past-times listening to rock music and generally behaving so morally drained that it's bordering on criminal. They've been temporarily banned from sitting inside the sixth form block during break, ever since Rocky got involved with a spare tub of wall paint left in the art classrooms. So, as I approach the untended shack of one floor, there are two figures sitting against the wall, rubbing their hands together feverishly.

"Come late, why don't you?" Fish calls, patting the dry space beside him with his ruby fingers.

"You're freezing," I say, sitting down beside him. "Can't you complain?"

"Not at all," says Rocky, shaking his head. His lips are almost blue in the cold, I notice. "If we go anywhere near that office, they'll chase us away with a shit-covered stick."

I wonder why the school ever bothers to keep Rocky and Fish when they behave so terribly, instead of expelling them on the spot. But then Fish pipes up about his test score on the very same English test I took today, and I remember why.

>

Mrs Smirnova's arguably the best drama teacher Hawthorne's ever been blessed with, but she never shuts up. We've been at the same scene for the past hour, the scene she's been so confident will work amazingly if everyone in it put in more work. My presence here is unnecessary: there hasn't been a scene change for the duration of this practice, and I'm convinced we won't reach my minuscule part today at the speed we're going.

But Roger's here, and it's enough to keep my attention going forever.

"You heard the lady, more passion," she says to her costar, at a voice quiet enough I believe I'm the only one who heard her. It brings me to my knees, figuratively. I think for the world, when I say Roger embodies beauty, as she stands there with not a care on her face, save for the fast jolts of humour that bring a smirk upon her lips.

"Who're you starin' at, Bernie?" Fish whispers, breaking from his occupation with untying cast members' necklaces. Of course Fish is here (as well as a much more peaceful Rocky), employed as backstage help by a sympathetic Mrs Smirnova, who believed it would get their behaviour back on track. 

"Stifler," I lie. The man in question sits atop the block, barely in my eyeline, taking glances at his friends backstage in his usual unprofessional manner. To think anyone would ever be infatuated with his goblinlike behaviour, much less myself, amazes me.

"Ooh, Stifler," he says. "Look at his long, greasy hair. Isn't it sexy?" I hit him with the back of my hand, which elicts a juvenile laugh. "Come on, is it actually Stifler?"

I nod my head yes. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Fish. I thought  _you'd_  understand."

He sighs, and drops down to sit beside me, a golden necklace draped between his fingers. "Well, what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Watching Roger act while sitting beside the rusty old heater, listening to its rhythmic mechanical crank, is what I do in theatre after school on most days. Fish becomes nothing more than a distraction to my daydreaming, sometimes commenting on how Stifler did something wildly unattractive, or how Mrs Smirnova's standing at the back of the hall waving her arms around in celebration.

"Hey, Berns," he says, nudging me softly in the rib. "I saw yesterday, with Rocky. There's a new film coming out and apparently, it's fucking raw."

"Raw?" I tear my eyes off the stage. "What do you mean?"

"Ultraviolence," he says, a considerable uplift in his voice. "You know. Stabbing and stuff."

I raise my eyebrows in contempt. "You sound excited there."

I'd be lying if I didn't say I was excited alongside him, but I had had enough of communicating through strained whispers backstage while missing all of Roger's best parts. So I tell him to perhaps go downstairs to where Rocky resides, and make sure he hasn't eaten all the Quality Streets by himself. This is a command he easily obeys.

The night finishes when I retreat under the stage after Roger's scenes are done, and help pick up the mess Rocky made with the sweet wrappers. It's a fine job, as they're singing on stage now, and the sound reverberates through the floor and allows us to sing along without being heard.

When we're leaving, Roger leaves on her own, the jacket slung over her shoulder swishing with her stylish gait. I watch her from afar, distractedly saying goodbye to Rocky and Fish while trying not to blush so obviously.

"Good job today, Bernie," says Rocky, knowing I did more work than him.

That's how I leave it that night. I walk the five-minute route from school to my house, passing through paths lined with trees and lampposts, that deflect the biting wind. I consider everything how it is: you've gone and got a crush on Roger fucking Taylor, and no amount of daydreaming is ever going to change the fact that you _can't_ date her, you _can't_ kiss her, and most importantly, you _can't_ feed the ducks with her while holding her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you somewhat enjoyed this, let me know in the comments! i promise that you'll see more of roger (and her friends /wink wink/) later on in the story (so like chapter 2).


	2. Chapter 2

"Did you have fun?" Dad asks, as I enter the house, putting my coat on the hanger.

"I did," I say.

It's cold in the house. It's always cold, the familiar breeze enough to send shivers, but never enough to warrant any real action. Dad's made me tea, despite the time, and I could never say no to such a lovely deed. While we're sitting at the table, I tell him about the atmosphere today and the lack of work I did.

Just before I'm about to go upstairs, he asks if there's anyone new and interesting in theatre that I'd want to be friends with. This concern stems from my early high school days, when friends were a dire problem that encouraged me to go to all sorts of coping methods. Now everything's fine and dandy, with Rocky and Fish by my side, I haven't heard that question in a matter of months.

I'm hesitating my answer, filling the silence with all sorts of vowels while I debate whether or not to bring Roger into the equilibrium. Before I can dote on that idea for any longer, I find myself saying, "Yeah, there is."

Dad looks considerably brighter when hearing this. "Oh, really? Who is it?"

"Well, her name is Roger," I say, busying myself with the cupboards so he doesn't see me blush. "She plays one of the leads. She's really nice."

"Strange name for a girl," he says. "Are you friends with her?"

I don't know what to say to this. Roger and I have barely spoken to each other before, and when we have, I've made a right fool of myself. So I say, "We're friendly with each other. I'll try and make friends, though."

Dad smiles, and suddenly I feel terribly guilty for the tiniest lie I just told. On the off-chance that Roger was ever interested in me, I'd have to pretend we were just friends, rather than lovers. And I know if I was given the chance to be that, I'd never keep my mouth shut.

>

To my wishes, on Tuesday, it does snow.

"Bernie, have you seen the snow?" Dad calls, as he passes my door while I'm getting ready. I don't believe him at first: not only would it be too convenient, but he's pulled this joke on me before. When I reluctantly peer out of the window, I'm surprised to see the street covered in thick white snow, still falling softly.

In 1971, the council are still too hesitant to introduce cancellation when the snowfall's heavy. I make my way to school dressed in my dad's winter coat and a scarf, deliberately avoiding certain routes so no one from school would see me trudging round in this ridiculous attire. The neighbourhood looks so much prettier dressed in snow, despite how it's ruining my journey, and the low sun means the light of the streetlights illuminate the place in a strangely quaint atmosphere.

As I near closer to the school, several kids are throwing snowballs at each other, laughing gleefully when they get hit. One even tackles his friend straight-on and shoves a snowball into her mouth. I narrowly avoid getting hit by one too. I think Rocky and Fish will take advantage of this snow and get a few of us soaking.

That's what I see when I approach the sixth form block, made almost invisible by the layers of snow covering it's low roof, pushed up against the sides of the building to clear the paths. Rocky and Fish are there, having walked together from their closer houses. Flecks of snow sit in Fish's light hair, and dissolve when he runs his hand through it. They're both beaming, their coats covered in snow, both solid and melted.

"Alright, Berns?" Rocky says, gathering a snowball in his gloved hands.

I dodge the snowball he throws at me, and reach over to the nearby bench to gather one for him, the cold stinging my bare fingers. "How are you liking this snow?"

"It's bloody lovely," he says, as my snowball hits him in the chest. His ears and cheeks turn a shade pinker. Just as he's preparing to get me back, Fish hits him in the back with one.

"Skill McGill," Fish sings, before getting hit right in the forehead.

While I'm sitting at the back of the form room holding ice on Fish's forehead, we're informed that anyone caught throwing snowballs, pushing others onto ice and other wintry hijinks will be put into detention every lunch time this week forward. I hastily take the ice off Fish's head and tell him to sit upright, which he visually disagrees with.

"What was it you two were doing this morning?" Rocky pipes up, knowing it'll piss us off. He gets a slap round the face and Fish's hand over his mouth.

We're told by Mr Jannings that we'd better shut up now, otherwise we'd be lumped in with the young offenders at detention this week. It gives me a chance to seek glances at Roger and her friends during one of Mr Jannings's long winding speeches, hoping nobody sees my gazes.

Roger hangs out with three other people — Melina Mercury, Brian May, and John Deacon. I have considerably more classes with those people, some I even share desks with, and I live for the moments where they mention Roger briefly, and the whole world seems more real by the minute.

Melina sees the world different, critics as distractions rather than those who can seriously affect the way you're perceived. She wears her dark hair with a fringe and edges that reach her shoulders, and doesn't care for the rule pertaining to makeup, eyeliner being the best offender. She does theatre with Roger, and it wasn't until I sat backstage that I found out she has the most wonderful singing voice, one she's strangely afraid of showing. I feel if Roger never existed, it would be Melina's arms I'd fall so easily into.

Brian is a darling. Everywhere he goes he radiates positive calm, and I suppose I say that from an onlooker, making my point perhaps more valid. He's distinctively recognisable by his mass of curls, those which everyone has a problem with acknowledging as natural, and his friends can't stay away from them, always touching his hair during lessons. I don't blame them for one bit.

John is a boy of few words, preferring to keep his mouth shut and simply observe the tomfoolery he so obviously sets off. He dresses straight out of the sixties, his denim jeans ill-fitting but surprisingly flattering against his figure. He's my lab partner in chemistry, and we go well together because neither of us want to say anything ever, only to talk about the interests we both share, and hear the sound of each other's voices.

They're sitting together toward the front, Melina dusting Brian's eyelids with light blue, a colour that accentuates his prettiness in a way I'm sure only Melina could achieve. Roger and John are smirking about something inaudible, and her smile sends me to the moon and back, quick enough for me to see her laugh, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

I have biology next, but I'm unsure what room we're in this week. I end up waiting after Rocky and Fish have ran off to lessons, to subtly follow John in the direction he goes off to.

It looks like we're dissecting a heart. Although I don't sit next to John, I have this class with him: when Mr Jones gives up his teaching prowess and lets us work with whoever we want, I immediately find John and follow him to a table.

"We did this in Year Seven," he says, as Mr Jones passes round the hearts, and the class all react in different ways. When we get given ours, we become part of the minority that smiles and eagerly gathers the scalpels.

"You went to St Peter's down the road, didn't you?" I ask, as we attempt to listen to Jones lazily explain how we're going to do this.

John nods, not taking his eyes off the front. "I did. It was a terrible experience, but they had a kickass science department."

I ask more about St Peter's, and in return, I tell him about my time at Hawthorne's high school, a myriad of name-calling and teachers who's sexuality and age-preference we could only guess. Both Roger and Melina came from Dina Trent's, several streets across from Hawthorne, so the selection of interesting girls to befriend was scarce. I ended up hanging around with a group that only had a reputation for not knowing when they're not wanted: the rest of the year occasionally forgot we existed.

"Sounds unique," he says, making a thin slice across the base of the heart. "Be glad you weren't at Dina Trent's. I hear Roger and Melina once got into a catfight for wearing the same earrings as one of the self-titled popular girls. Or something equally stupid."

"Oh, really?" I move my half of the heart to my own board, and trace the scalpel round the intricate curves. It never occurred to me that Roger and Melina weren't popular at Dina Trent's, despite not being the most liked at Hawthorne. I'd heard about DT's brutal hierarchy, but I'd always imagined them on the giving end, not the receiving.

"Don't tell them I said that," he says, lowering his voice. "It might not be true."

But something about John's voice alludes that that's a disclaimer: I've heard it many times before, to keep him out of direct trouble. And I suppose, it's not so far-fetched, if you were to consider the behaviour of those once persecuted for their harmless actions. I don't think about it for too long, as it saddens me. Just makes me want to hug Roger tighter.

I quickly move the topic to the potential bathroom graffiti at the boy's school, detailing that the girl's school was mainly massive penises drawn on the back of the stall doors. John finds this funnier than he should, and accidentally cuts through one of the valves Mr Jones specified to keep clear of. It just makes us laugh louder, until we become subject to glares from the other classmates, losers who can't find enjoyment in a single thing.

How we shouldn't be laughing makes it all the more funnier.

While I'm walking to my next lesson, I pass Brian and Roger in the stairwell. It takes a large portion of my self-control not to lose it all, and I walk up the stairs oddly stiff, afraid to hunch or take double-steps, my usual manner. Brian's still wearing the eyeshadow Melina did for him, no doubt under scrutiny from what I imagine to be very homophobic classmates and teachers. Roger walks beside him with linked arms, as they discuss the homework Leider set for us last week.

"Have you done it, Brian?" she asks, her voice sending shivers down my spine.

"Of course I have," he says.

She sighs. "You're making me look bad." There's a pause, where I'm trying not to look too stupid weaving in between pairs in the hallway. "Oh, Bernie?" I turn around, my face plunged into a bowl of hot water. "Have you done the homework?"

"Not at all," I lie, if only to sound cool and laid-back, unable to bring myself to do the simplest of homework. I think of Leider and how unrequitedly angry she'll be, not just at me but at Roger too, and I want us to share our embarrassment, if it'll make Roger feel a little less alone.

"Great," she says, and I lose my ability to walk properly into class.

Of course, I'll think of this moment for as long as I harbour feelings for Roger. The tips of my fingers don't feel properly connected to my pen as I write down the date; do I allow myself to feel explicitly giddy about this interaction, or suppress it down in a fit of angry homophobia? Neither of those things, I think, avoiding Leider's frosty gaze, and instead keeping my head down to daydream about what could happen next, in a perfect world.

The time comes when Leider asks for the homework, and starts off the ordeal by asking which of us haven't done the homework. Both Roger and I hesitantly raise our hands, and I catch her eyes in a fleeting moment before we're both subjected to her unnecessary public humiliation ritual. It feels terrible, of course, but there's something about the solidarity between Roger and I now, that turns my heart into liquid gold.

"You did the homework, didn't you?" says Roger, turning around to face me as we walk toward the sixth form block. I'm caught off-guard, clearly, so she doesn't expect a response, only leaving me with a special edition of her dazzling smiles, shooting a bullet through my chest.

I watch her walk ahead of me, her manner still as stylish and lovely as ever, despite the icy paths. Not even the biting cold will stop her wearing her skirt to her mid-thighs — if my legs looked as perfect as hers, I'd never shut up about them. I never stop staring at them, hopefully perceived as admiration rather than drooling.

We part at the door, for Rocky and Fish's form room ban doesn't end until Friday. I'm ready to watch her prance into the welcoming doors of the sixth form block and become test subject to Melina's new eyeliner. Except, she stops abruptly in the doorway, metres away from the turn I'm taking at the corner, and turns around again.

"Do you wanna come inside?" she asks, almost earnest. "It's quite cold out there."


	3. Chapter 3

_"Do you wanna come inside?" she asks, almost earnest. "It's quite cold out there."_

Unable to form any more than a word, I say, "Sure." And before I've got time to really process what happened, I'm walking behind Roger Taylor toward her space in the form room, my head bursting.

I miss the form room, although it's only been a matter of days. The large paneled windows give a skewed view of the field in front, the snow still falling softly. There are still students messing around together, throwing snowballs and pushing each other into the snow, despite Headmaster Stensrud's oddly vicious warning this morning. If I was closer, it would be easier to identify those figures as Rocky and Fish.

Roger and her friends sit in the corner, where the windows split, casting white light across their faces as they sit together. I meet John's eyes before Roger introduces me, and he smiles, almost like he knows what's running through my mind. He nudges Brian carefully in the rib, alerting him, and I knew if I didn't trust John, I'd be going mad trying to guess their intentions.

"You three," says Roger, and their attention all snap up. "This is Bernie, from English."

John waves; Brian says hi; Melina gets up from her seat and shakes my hand, if only to get a feel of my social balance. Roger watches all of this with a small smile upon her face, and I'm torn between who to look at, her or her wonderful friends.

 

I don't know why she's invited me here, despite having exchanged a total of about twenty words with me for our lifespans. I can only hope she finds me strangely interesting. Sat beside her, I notice she smells like the perfume I always consider buying when I pass it in the shops, for it reminds me of a frosty winter night and golden stilettos and silky blonde hair all in one, wrapped up with a black ribbon. The woman in question sits beside me, her arm touching my arm, gently swinging her legs back and forth while she chats with her friends. I'd never be so nervous with them if Roger wasn't here, and every time she asks for my input on something it takes an overwhelming amount of willpower to force words out of my mouth, instead of simply sighing into Roger's shoulders.

I'm asked what I do in my spare time, what music I like, and which part of the neighbourhood I live in. It turns out I live only five minutes away from Roger (my heart flutters) and a street down from Brian. John tells me this in a way that suggests this is useful information, if my company goes well and I ever see the day I hang out with them. This thought excites me as much as it worries me, for I don't know how either Rocky or Fish will feel about me hooking up with one of the more original groups of the school. But that thought disappears away quite soon.

It's Melina I'm most interested in talking to, save for Roger. I don't have any lessons with her except for theatre, where my only glimpse into her personality is the snide comments she whispers in Roger's ear, and the clap of her hands every time she becomes subjected to what she calls "tea". It's become almost routine to hear, "spill the tea, dear," at least once during theatre, and it's terribly amusing music to my ears.

She says, not looking up from filing her nails, "You know what, I liked that jacket you wore last night."

I tell her thanks, I like the jacket she's wearing now; it's about time I stop complimenting everyone's outfits. She just looks at me with sparkling eyes and glances at Roger, not meeting her eyes. I'm left wondering what all these looks mean, whether or not they think I'm a bore.

Before I get the chance to dance in Roger's arms, the bell sounds, and a groan ripples across the class. My time with her and her friends has ended, and I'm due to disappear to history, a class I don't share with any of them. John and Brian hastily stand up, say goodbye to me, and make their way to their next lesson, supposedly getting there early enough to do the homework before the teacher arrives. This isn't so commonplace for Brian, who I often see doing this same thing before the lessons we share.

Once they're gone, Melina says, "I hope to see you around, Bernie." Her voice sounds just as delicate and sophisticated as it always has; she links her arm with Roger's and the latter says goodbye to me, and repeats what Melina said, about hoping to see me around again. She sounds more sincere than her friend.

I'm standing in the same spot for an unusually long time, almost forgetting what to do next, preferring to spend time replaying those fifteen minutes in my head rather than getting to next lesson. Everything Roger said sticks with me as significant — she listens to David Bowie, she enjoys ice skating, she watches horror films. God forbid John mentioned A Clockwork Orange, the title of the film Fish mentioned yesterday that got me thinking. I resist the urge to skip through the halls as I birth the idea that one day, I'll go to see A Clockwork Orange with Roger, and we can bond over our mutual love for alternative film. The idea sounds awfully terrible and unrealistic, but neither of those things stop me daydreaming all throughout history.

>

This evening, I have theatre again. With only a matter of days before the performances, Smirnova can't afford to guess on how well they'll do.

I explained myself to Rocky and Fish yesterday lunch time, an excuse which felt painfully sub-par without bringing my feelings for Roger into the mix. They weren't as caught-up about it as I'd thought, just wildly confused, refusing to understand why I'd want to spend any time with Melina Mercury.

"I just think she's interesting," I told them, precisely the truth.

They both chose not to attend Wednesday evening, hiding behind the alibi of a dental appointment, and an unnamed family emergency. I never expected Rocky and Fish to commit to any kind of arrangement for more than a month, a time limit they've surprisingly surpassed for a while. I get to experience it all without an incessant whisper in my ear; but I'm starting to miss it, as Roger sits out of my eyeline and we repeat the same scene over and over until it's nearing perfect.

I wish I knew where Roger and Melina hung out when they weren't acting. I can't afford to go out and "accidentally" stumble across them right now, for Smirnova wants to practise the scene changes again, and those are the only jobs I get for tonight.

When it's Roger's scene, I'm sitting with my back against the heater, hugging my knees, hoping the golden light of the stagelights casts a good colour on my face. If Roger were to ever turn her head toward the left wings, she'd only see me trying not to die, deliberately avoiding her gaze. She's got this part alone, supposedly engaging in a phone call to another character, sitting on a chair with one leg over the other and bent forward slightly, which admittedly looks sexy from where I am.

Her hair appears golden under the light, somewhere between curly and wavy, awfully soft. I wish I could spend hours brushing it and feeding her grapes, the way Roman women used to, carefree. Her voice when acting is just as sweet as I expected, cobwebs bejewelled with dew drops. I could sit here and dream over her for the rest of my life, but who would be there to do the scene changes?

I return to the conversation regarding why Roger felt it necessary to invite me inside, under the guise that it was too cold to wait outside; why Melina sounded ever so surprised that I was friends with Rocky and Fish; and why on Earth John and Brian kept communicating in their own secret body language, hardly contributing anything to the conversation, instead choosing to watch. Everything sounds awfully similar to how Rocky and Fish behaved when they knew I was crushing on Will Summers, but the thought that Roger harboured any romantic feelings toward me whatsoever was inherently wrong and incredibly unrealistic. There's nothing to stop me daydreaming here, my mind running in circles for the hundredth time, but the atmosphere is so calm and tempting, that it only feels natural.

When our time ends, Smirnova begins her winded speech about how well we all did today, including those whose parts we didn't reach. I'm due to walk back in the blistering snow, for my father works late on Wednesdays, and I didn't want to cause him any trouble. I think how gorgeous a walk in the snow would be alongside Roger, watching the snowflakes fall softly onto her cheeks. There's likely someone out there who gets to see that happen, be it one of her friends or someone else who catches her eye. As I walk through the fresh snow on long-since cleared paths, I realise it could be me, if I ever stopped being a pushover to my own insecurities.

 


End file.
